I had my car at the hotel but snow was expected, and driving home alone in a snowstorm around the hairpin curves edged with deep ravines on Highway 101 was the last thing I wanted to do.

Edith Iglauer invites Pierre Trudeau over for dinner and gets Barbra Streisand as a bonus.

The police officer turned us back and told us to for

During my thirty years living on the waterfront of British Columbia, I have always had some sort of container in which to sit on the water. My first boat was a ten-foot dinghy that my late husband John Daly, a commercial salmon troller, equipped with a small electric motor to surprise me. He had the bizarre idea that I, a sometime canoeist from Ohio, could manoeuvre a boat on my own around our capacious Pacific coast harbour. The electric engine would be ideal for me, he thought. No rope to pull to start it up! No gasoline tank on board!

When I was twelve my father enrolled me in a typing course from which I emerged typing with two fingers.

At home Frank and I are mutually sympathetic to the obligation to face one another and speak loudly; or, when we are away, to supply each other with new batteries when we forget them; but we have no defence against the independent wandering behaviour of our hearing aids. They are always someplace else. I probably have spent one percent of my life, close to a whole year, looking for the damned things.

First published in Geist #30 and now in the 20th Anniversary Collector's Edition.

A warm spring night, a country club dance, a date with an attractive young man—and braces on my two front teeth.

A new pet kitten becomes part of the family.

Plumb the depths of the Aquafit subculture with our embedded nonagenarian.

When I was living in New York in the 1960s, almost everyone I knew was walking or running to the office of some psychiatrist.